


Bound

by edibleflowers



Category: Popslash
Genre: Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of bondage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

> um. er. Bondage warning. Um. Yes. Thanks to Velma for the read-over.

You can't see anything, but that's all right. You know that one word is all it would take to restore sight. But that's hardly the point at the moment.

A tug on one hand, and his raspy voice murmurs, "Comfortable?" You nod. The action is repeated at your other wrist; again, you respond affirmatively. The bed rocks once more, then is abruptly devoid of any weight but your own. You pull experimentally at your wrists; they are firmly tied, each bound to an opposite post of the headboard. You're naked, and hard as a rock - your erection stands against your belly, wet with fluid leaking from the head. The anticipation alone has you breathing shallowly; you think that if you have to wait much longer, you'll go crazy.

"Oh, baby, you're so beautiful." Chris's voice is almost reverent; you can imagine him looking over you, his gaze appraising and hungry. "I wish you could see how gorgeous you are like this, all helpless for me."

You can only whimper your need. He chuckles, and you hear the arousal in his tone. "You want me to touch you, baby? Hmm?" You nod, breathing raggedly. At this point in time, your world has narrowed to the desire to have his hands on you.

He kneels on the bed, and you feel two fingers trail down your chest, circling one nipple, then the other. They harden under his caress, and you gasp, undone by the sensation that sinks deep into your skin. Equally exciting is the fact that you don't know where he'll touch you next; if it wasn't for being able to feel the dip in the mattress when he moves, you wouldn't even know where he was at any given moment.

When the damp heat of his mouth covers yours, you mewl into him, craning up to meet his kiss. He pulls back, murmuring, "God, you're hot for it," and his hand slides down to cover your straining dick. You moan when his grasp slides away a moment later; feeling a whisper of fabric flutter over your ribcage, you realize he's still clothed, and that's kind of hot somehow. He tugs open his zipper and then he's straddling your ribs, and hard flesh nudges at your lips. You open your mouth instinctively, and the sharp taste of pre-come sparks on your tongue even as the blunt cockhead slides inward.

He's not forceful, you have to grant, but there's something incredibly erotic about him being on his knees before you, slowly fucking your mouth, with his damn shorts still on -- the inseam is rubbing against your ribs in a really annoying way, as a matter of fact. But you're hardly in a position to protest; even if you could speak, you've got a mouthful of dick right now. "Mm," you attempt, and wiggle a little to get more comfortable.

One of his hands sinks into your hair, where he tangles his fingers, flexing them in a slow rhythm that matches the glide of his cock in and out of your mouth. You work to let your throat relax, grateful when he pulls back to let you breathe, then pushes in again. Going down on him is something you always enjoy, in no small part because of the appreciative noises he makes during blow jobs: he moans and gasps, writhes, telling you in breathy little whispers just how heavenly your mouth is and how much he loves your tongue.

This situation is no different, though he's controlling the pace instead of you; when your nose is pressed to his belly, he groans aloud, muttering, "you're a fucking god, Fatone, Jesus, you know what that does to me." He pulls back, thrusting again, and you add suction this time, pulling hard with your lips and tongue, relishing the taste of him, reveling in his startled cries of pleasure. Behind your head, the headboard shakes; since he's taken his hand out of your hair, you guess that he must be hanging on to it. You suckle harder, and suddenly there's a gush of semen over your tongue, down your throat. Swallowing hard, you manage to take most of it, though your eyes tear up and you know it must look ridiculous when he pulls back and there's a long string dangling from his cock to your mouth.

You're a bit dizzy, but you manage to register Chris slipping off the bed, then the swipe of tissue over your mouth, your chest, cleaning up what you missed. "Damn, Joe," he breathes, then, bending to kiss you. "So fucking hot." Then his hands are on you again, his fist sliding over the engorged shaft, his tongue hot and damp on your belly. God, it's so good and such a tease all at once, and you strain, wanting to tell him how much you need to come. Something slides tight and restraining over the head of your cock. You think you might black out from the sudden pressure that squeezes the base: it's a cockring, you know, and now you're pretty much convinced that death is imminent.

Everything is magnified now, even the sound of your own breathing harsh and desperate in your ears; but especially the sensation of his fingers grazing your erection, lightly tracing the contours of the crown, as if he's learning the shape of it by feel. When the rough moist warmth of his tongue rolls over the head, you give a shuddering groan and strain upward, dying for more. He laughs, though, and then is gone, and you want to cry.

"Don't worry, baby," you hear him murmur. "I'll take good care of you." He pushes your legs apart as he climbs back on the bed, and you hear his appreciative muttering as he strokes your cock with a firm hand. Then a finger breaches you, utterly without warning; it's slick on a layer of lube, but the abruptness of it is still enough to make you yelp, and despite all the foreplay there's still a twinge of pain.

It fades in moments, though, disappearing under the pleasure that strikes when Chris's finger presses deep, stroking your prostate, and you arch off the bed with a helpless groan. Jesus Mary and Joseph sticks in your throat; you bite down on your lip to keep from speaking. He does it again, and you're fairly sure now that you're doing to die of this torture. He's got two fingers in you now, twined together to tease the sphincter muscle, and they feel like heaven but they're not enough.

He's relentless, and he spends a lot of time on it, on finger-fucking you. You writhe under the intense assault; when he whispers that he's going on to three fingers, you nearly break down and demand that he just fucking fuck you already, that you want his goddamned cock. But finally his grouped fingers relent, withdraw, and there's a tearing sound -- the foil condom package, you think with a great sense of relief -- and then he's pushing your legs apart even further, and the head of his cock is finding its way between your buttocks, pressing at your opening, and oh God just like that it's inside.

You're thankful that you can moan, because you do, in a combination of gratitude and need and overwhelming lust. It feels like the room is whirling around you; you don't know anything now but the feel of him over you, inside you, pumping slow and steady and letting you feel all of his thick erection, and his mouth heated and greedy on yours. You put your feet flat on the mattress and buck up to meet his thrusts, encouraging him to push deep, and he does, and it's the best feeling ever. Nothing could top this, not in a million years.

You can tell, from the way he's gasping for breath, that he's as affected by this as you are, and that pleases you. There's nothing like the sense of fulfillment that comes from having him inside you, or when you're inside him; right now, you feel closer to him than ever, even though you can't touch him or even see him. His little cries, his imprecations, let you picture his face just as clearly, and the thought of that image -- him bent over you, his hands on your raised thighs, hips arching and pounding and twisting his cock into your body, God, it's the hottest fucking thing ever.

He arranges your legs around his waist and then braces himself with shaking arms over you, and suddenly it's all in earnest. He's hitting you just right with every thrust, and it doesn't take long at all for you to scream out your climax, ejaculate spattering your chest and his, and while your pelvis is still rocking in a dumb rhythm, he comes too, shouting your name. Your heart is going like a drum in your chest, so you're perfectly happy to lay there and gasp for air while his thrusts slow and then cease.

You can feel him slumped over you, his hands on your chest, his harsh breathing ringing in your ears. After a minute, he gets up, leaning up to yank at the scarves binding your wrists; while you're massaging the skin with tingling hands, he pulls your blindfold off, and you blink against the light -- dim as it is in the room, your eyes still need a moment to adjust to it.

He grins at you, his hair and face damp with sweat, and you lean up to kiss him. As you sink back to the bed, he settles into your embrace, murmuring comfortably, one hand between your legs to tug the cockring off, and you tangle a leg between his and think in a drowsy, sated way about how you can't wait to do this to him next time.


End file.
